Sunday Mornings
by helloberrie
Summary: Draco's a morning person and Harry is clearly not. That gives him time to stare at his husband and melt with love on a weekly basis.


Watching him sleep is something I can't describe. Usually I don't sleep until much later than eight or nine in the morning and he can sleep for two days in one go. That means that on weekends I am the one who has to wake him up. He never sets alarms on weekends. That means though, that I get to watch him while he sleeps. I don't do it very often. I suppose when you're young you forget that time passes and when it passes you forget to enjoy it. But he and I also went through a war. We went through death. He suffered it, I witnessed it. He died and I died with him. But we're both alive now and we can't help but enjoy life a little more than most of our age do. And watching him sleep is one of those moments I have when I know I'm enjoying life.  
He's not an elegant sleeper. Not in the least. He snores. Not terribly loudly but enough to be amusing and annoying. Every now and then, in the middle of the night I have to kick him to shut him up. And he talks. Sometimes I can't help but laugh out loud with the ridiculous things he mutters in his sleep. Once he complained that his pancakes had too much Snape in them and because of that he would have to wash them with the laundry. Go figure. I'm sure Snape's horrified in the afterlife when that happened, probably complaining that he didn't die so that Potter could dream about him being a syrup for pancakes.  
He sleeps with his mouth open and sometimes he drools. The first time I woke him up because there was a puddle in my pillow he blushed so beautifully I had to laugh. Of course I didn't find it amusing in the beginning but Harry's way too adorable for me to be cross with him for long. I would have kissed him if it hadn't been for the morning breath. He apologised over and over again and didn't look at me in the eye for more than ten minutes.  
Sometimes it's not amusing at all. He has night terrors. Some nights he doesn't remember the nightmares when he wakes up and I thank Merlin for it. The screams are bad enough. In those nights I don't sleep. His screams remind me of too much to allow sleep to come. Sometimes I'm the one who has nightmares. The war spares no one. Even the survivors. In those nights we both stay awake. Some nights we talk, others we get up and go outside. But we don't go back to sleep.  
We talk of the war a lot. In the beginning of our relationship it was a topic we tried to avoid, for obvious reasons. Neither of us wanted to remember it, we didn't want to hurt each other by bringing up bad memories, I didn't want to be constantly reminded of the side I had chosen, even if I hadn't chosen it consciously. But it was something that we needed to discuss so one night we started talking about it. It became a topic we were both comfortable in and then we started joking about the whole thing. But the wounds are still there. They still hurt. The nightmares are still painful, the memories didn't fade. But we cope and we have each other.  
I love to look at him sleep. Usually I read a bit in bed on weekend mornings, until I deem it late enough to wake him up. I am his alarm on weekends I suppose. We sleep with the shutters open so the light can come in in the morning so I get to see the light on his face, on his body. And I marvel with the different tones of light and its effects on his skin. He shines with a spring yellow light, especially against white sheets. In those mornings I swear to Merlin that he looks like a Greek god. Apollo or Ares. Even in his sleep there is a strength and sensuality about him that baffles me. In the rare winter morning light, there's a bluish white that makes him looks smaller, more vulnerable, almost completely cocooned in the duvet, even though there are warming charms around the house. I can't help but brush my fingers through his hair when he looks like that and look at him with a fond smile.  
It's a strange thing being in love. When we were at Hogwarts and barely friends, there was a shyness between us. We didn't exactly know how to act around each other. I had been pining over him for months until he noticed me. Well we always noticed each other, that's what made our relationship change from enemies to acquaintances to friends. And then to boyfriends. And finally to husbands. If we hadn't be conscious of each other's presence, there wouldn't have been the opportunity for curiosity. And that curiosity wouldn't have developed to what it was now. I would have longed for him in the distance and he would have regretted not acting on his curiosity and tried to find out what I was like. I guess one can say that he clearly likes what I am like.  
I can't help but feel and enormous sense of pride when I look at my ring. Not that I should feel any less than that but there's always that feeling of conquest. I got Harry Potter. He's mine to love and no one else's. In a world full of people who would kill to have him, I, the Ex-Death Eater, the social pariah, the disgraced noble heir, the fallen Slytherin, got Harry Potter, the Saviour of the Wizarding World, the Boy Who Lived Twice, and the famous Auror Potter. I take pride in that. It's one of my biggest accomplishments. Not that his titles matter in any way. Everybody knew that I was the least impressed person in the world by my husband's titles. But I'm not that much of an idiot to not realise the advantages of having Harry Potter as my husband. The man himself was the biggest advantage of them all.  
How long has it been since we've been together? Since that day he got up from the Gryffindor table and walked up to me. Eight years? Almost nine. Since that morning, we've been together, since that morning a door opened for us. We would have been fools to not go through that door. And look where it got us. Where it got me. Staring at my husband sleeping in a warm Sunday morning in June. Looking back it's a wonder it worked out so well. Neither of us knew exactly what to do with each other. Both too insecure to actually notice each other's feelings, both inexperienced in the love thing. No one taught me how to love and after he told me about his life, his childhood, no one taught him either. He learned through trial and error. He taught me some tricks. Like for example, "love is putting the other person's needs in front of your own". I gave him a piece of my mind on that. That is not love. That is slavery. Love is putting the other person's needs in the same place as your own. Or at least that was my take on it. I'm not and never was a selfless person so the idea that I had to disregard my needs and wishes in favour of someone else didn't sit well with me. Eventually he agreed and became more selfish. And I agreed in part with him and became more selfless.  
I look at the clock on my bedside table. Silently I close the book I forgot I was reading when I started looking at him and put it in my lap. "Harry, wake up." No response. "Harry, it's eleven thirty in the morning. You've slept long enough."  
"I ha'e you." He mutters with his face against his pillow.  
"You have thirty minutes to get ready. We need to be at the Burrow at twelve."  
"Just let me sleep."  
Usually I would pull his covers completely off of him but today his sleepy ill-tempered responses are nothing but amusing and endearing to me. I lean to him and kiss his neck. "Good morning princess." He rolls his head so he can uncover one eye from his pillow. I can see a hint of smile in his hidden face. "Thirty minutes you said?" I nod. "Time enough a few things first." He says giving me a look I know all too well. "If you think you're going to get something before a shower and brushing your teeth you're very much mistaken, Potter."  
"I hate you."  
"I hate you too."


End file.
